katrina

the mattresses are on the carpet in the room with no windows.
i sit facing the fan to stifle the heat,
which is pouring sweat
onto my freckles.
sometimes a card is blown away
and i run to get it so we can keep playing go fish.
there’s a crack behind me, followed by a shatter and clinking.
the window in my room has burst and thrown glass shards into
my innocent stuffed animals.
dad rushes to fix it
before the wind and rain seep in and destroy the carpet.
i look at mom, who has to go fish.
“are we safe?” i ask.
another branch falls in our driveway.
the whooshing of the leaves and wind and rain outside
makes it hard to hear her response.
“we will be,” she says, and draws a card.